take a moment, remind yourself
by Meepyonnee
Summary: It took only one accident, one hit to her knee to take everything away from Mai, ISU certified figure skater and Japan's best for Ladies' Singles. The accident had put her life in danger—but it took another. Overcome by grief and guilt, Mai takes the rest of the season off and finds unexpected camaraderie with a superbly talented pianist, who insists he's just a piano tuner. -:- AU
1. a thought that might alarm you

_take a moment, remind yourself_

—Qualified for the Grand Prix Final for the fourth time, Mai Taniyama—ISU certified figure skater and one of Japan's best athletes for Ladies' Singles—is at the peak of her career. Yet it takes only one accident, one hit to her knee to take all that away. The accident has put her life in danger—but it takes another. Overcome by grief and guilt, Mai takes the rest of the season off as her injury recovers and finds unexpected camaraderie with a superbly talented pianist, who insists he's just a piano tuner.

* * *

 _1: a thought that might alarm you_

 _-:-_

With skates in her bag and hair still up in a tight bun, Mai stares at the hole-in-a-wall piano academy, fully intending to spill her guts to the person inside. She pretends not to notice how her breaths come in shorter puffs, how her stomach threatens to drop, how the urge to scratch her scarred knee grows by the second. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head and her hands, too, letting out a sigh far larger than the colorful sign that decorated the glass door: _Piano lessons offered! All students welcome!_

"Come on, Mai," she says to herself. "You've rehearsed your lines a million times. The worst thing that'll happen is that he'll slap you and curse your entire existence and wish you were dead. Nothing you can't handle."

Nodding to herself, she tries her damnedest to calm her nerves as she marches straight to the door, but fails as her hand touches the knob. She can't bring herself to push it down. Sighing deeply, her forehead meets the glass door in a loud thunk. She stares at the ground beneath her feet, vision hazy, regulating her breathing as she counts in threes to keep herself calm. She tries desperately to steady her heartbeat, to keep tears at bay, and she debates whether to go in or . . . to give up this time again, just as she's given up yesterday. And the day before that, and the day before that. Taking in a deep breath and letting it go in a hurried exhale, she turns around and starts to walk away. She isn't ready.

With thunder rumbling in the background, a sweet melody dances in the moonlight, barely a whisper as raindrops drum down the pavement. Stopping in her tracks, she turns around and stands in front of the door once more. The introduction quiet and serene, like someone caressing the cheek of their lover, the piano piece starts out innocently. Mai's eyes flutters closed as she leans in to rest her ear upon the barrier that separates her and the melody.

As if possessed, she pushes the door open without a moment's hesitation and tiptoes into the studio. The piano continues to play, another theme replacing the first, notes that are once sweet turn reminiscent. It reminds Mai of a quiet summer, of a family outing to the beach —even though she's never once seen a grain of sand in her life. The overall tune is already quiet, yet it decrescendos to a pianissimo, then starts anew. A sudden retelling of the melody bangs out fortissimo —louder, darker. Haunting yet beautiful, the phantom hand that once caressed her cheek lovingly glides south, passing by her chin, down her jaw. It enfolds her neck in a vice grip, this melody.

But it suddenly disappears. The overflowing sadness that nearly chokes her vanishes in the air. And although the piano continues to play, the notes come out robotic, lifeless. It continues for a few endless seconds, then . . . nothing. Mai hears a screech, then the sound of wood striking the floor —and the boom of all the keys of a piano.

The harsh sound slaps her back into reality. Blinking rapidly as she hastens to collect her bearings, she finds herself in an unfamiliar room, realizing she has wandered further into the studio than she thought. The first thing that takes her notice are the awards lining the walls. _So_ many awards. From certificates to trophies, prizes of different shapes and sizes decorates all four corners. Hypnotized, she takes a framed photo from its perch —it shows an ecstatic young man, smile reaching his ears as he shook hands with a middle-aged woman, a huge trophy looming behind them.

So _this_ is Eugene Davis . . .

From the other side of the studio, footsteps echoes as they come closer and closer to where she was. Panicking, she backed away and willed her legs to get her out of there. She isn't ready. _She isn't ready._

She isn't ready to tell Eugene Davis's family the truth about his death.

"Who's there?" asks a man out of her sight, his voice echoing throughout the room. "We're closed."

Mai accidentally drops the picture frame, belatedly noticing how severely her hands are shaking. The frame landed facing up, it's glass vibrates at the force but does not shatter. She crouches down to pick it up, but because her hands still shook she fails a few times before she actually picks it up.

"What are you doing?"

Black leather shoes stops in front of her, and Mai gulps, mind racing a mile a minute thinking of what her next move should be. Escape? No, he'd think she's stolen something and might report her to the police. Pretend to be a roaming merchant? Ah, but she has nothing but bandages and her ice skates in her bag. Should she sell him some bandages, then?

"You'd look like an idiot," Mai mutters to herself, wishing she could have the power to teleport.

"Excuse me? What did you say?" he says rather than asks, anger carefully hidden behind his voice's controlled volume.

"No, no it's nothing!" Mai shoots up from her crouching position and bows three times. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't know the studio's closed! It's just that I —"

This man in front of her . . . isn't he —

"A-aren't you Eugene Davis?" Mai stutters, eyes wide open. _But that's impossible._ In her surprise, she drops the frame again. This time the glass breaks, but no one notices.

"No, I am not," the man hisses, ice lacing his tone. His dark blue eyes glares at her with an undeniable anger. "Why are you here? We're closed. Come back another time."

"Someone told me this was Eugene Davis's piano academy but . . . but why are you—" Mai's throat closes up, words failing her. Instead, she gestures at the walls, at the pictures of the man standing in front of her lining the walls.

"Yes that's him. Now what do you want?"

"It's just — I'm . . . I'm here to see him but—"

"He's dead. He's at a cemetery in Kyushu. Go look for him there."

His bluntness strikes through her as if a blade has punctured her chest. "I . . . I'm sorry," she stammers. Moisture fills her eyes, threatening to blow over as she desperately tries to control her breathing. _She knows. She knows he's dead_. "I'm here to—"

"If that is all," he her said, icy hardness lacing his voice. It's so distracting —how much he looks like the Eugene Davis in the photos, the Eugene Davis she doesn't even remember. They're carbon copies and —belatedly, stupidly —Mai realizes only now that they are twins. "Leave," he commands with finality.

"N-no! I —" Mai racks her brain, trying to thing of something, _anything_ , to make their conversation longer. Guilt will kill her if she leaves now with only Eugene Davis's brother telling her to get lost. "I'm —I'm here to, uh, learn piano!"

No response. He simply stares at her like her coach would whenever she flubs a measly double, his jaw set in an unimpressed line.

"I've wanted to learn ever since I was a kid, you know? But we weren't exactly rich so I couldn't afford lessons, though my elementary teacher started to teach me some notes when I told her about this and I kinda learned stuff —only nursery rhymes—but what I really want to play are the greats like Liszt and Chopin and Beethoven and —"

Mai halts her rambling, cheeks reddening as she realizes what she's doing. Even so, it doesn't look like he's listening to her anyway. He's scrolling through his phone instead.

"So, um," she continues. Why is she continuing though? She should really just shut her mouth and crawl under a rock and live there for the rest of her life.

"Lessons for beginners are twice a week. Tell me your prefered schedule," he states robotically, mouth set in a grim line. His slanted brows tells Mai how much he _doesn't_ want to do this despite what he's saying. "It'll cost this much for twelve lessons. Can you afford it?"

He shows her his phone, opened on its calculator app. Mai can only do so much not to let her jaw drop. She runs the numbers in her head. It probably won't make a dent on her savings account, but _still_. She never expected piano lessons are _that_ expensive.

"Um. Yeah, sure. Should I—should I deposit it to your bank?"

"I prefer cash or check, thank you." He doesn't look too enthusiastic to have a new student, really. "Do you need installments?"

"No it's fine! I, uh, can give you the whole amount on the first lesson."

He regards her doubtfully, his stare dubious. "We can start as soon as you wish. Lessons are either Monday and Thursday, Tuesday and Friday or Wednesday and Saturday."

"Oh but on weekdays I—" Mai starts, but clamps her lips back together. Her schedule's free—absolutely free for the next three months, she reminds herself. No morning practices at the rink, or afternoon and evening either. She's been limited to doing only non-strenuous ballet. "Um. Never mind. I'm fine with the Tuesday-Friday schedule."

"See you tomorrow, then."

Mai starts to open her mouth to say thanks, she looks forward to tomorrow, she'll be his best student ever. But she sees the exasperation in his set of shoulders, the way his eyes slanted, how stiff his posture is. She's being told to get lost. Again.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

She leaves as quietly as she could, steps muted as she walks on the hardwood floor. The bell that chimes as she opens the door startles her—she hadn't noticed it the first time she came in. And finally, she goes out the door, a heavy weight still consuming her chest. She turns around to see if he's still there, standing motionless, alone in the middle of the room. But the lights have already been turned off and she could distantly hear the sound of footsteps disappearing further into the building.

Straining her ears, she irrationally hopes he would start playing the piano again. A few minutes or a few hours—she doesn't know how long she waited.

-:-

* * *

 _A/N: Um._


	2. failed to be charming

_2: failed to be charming_

-:-

"Two things to remember with the treble clef. FACE and E-G-B-D-F." Oliver—the name of Eugene Davis's twin, Mai has learned —points to the blank staff drawn on the whiteboard in front of Mai. She's sitting on the piano bench, but the piano itself behind her. Oliver says she isn't supposed to look at, let alone touch, the instrument before she's learned how to read basic musical notes.

"Oh, I remember this," Mai perks. "'Every Good Boy Does Fine', right?" She beams.

"Yes, very good," her teacher says, though his lack of enthusiasm makes her doubt his words. "Now for the bass clef—"

"'Grizzly Bears Don't Fly Airplanes' and 'All Cows Eat Grass'," she recites off the top of her head. She'd studied a bit last night when she couldn't sleep, anxious for the coming lesson. Sadly, her knowledge of musical technicalities stops there-she fell asleep at the introduction to tempo.

Oliver gives her a sidelong glance, pursing his lips as if he was barely stopping a scathing remark to tumble out. "Very good," he says instead and comes forward to open the lid on the piano. "Turn around."

A small puff of dust swirls through the air as he opens to uncover the keys and Mai sneezes, pinching her nose with one hand and fanning the air with another.

"What would you like to play?" he asks as he brings a chair beside the piano bench and sits on it. He looks at her expectantly, albeit with an obvious lack of curosity.

"Oh? I get to pick?" Eyebrows scrunched, Mai thinks back to the various blog posts she binge-read last night. One common factor about a beginner's first piano class: _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_.

"Sure. As long as it is within your ability to play."

"So . . . I guess _A Rain of Tears_ is out of the question?"

Brows joining together at the middle, he blinks twice and stares far away through the small window of the practice room. " _Sento in seno ch'in pioggia di lagrime_ ," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Yes, exactly! I was afraid you won't recognize it. It's an aria from Vivaldi's ' _Tieteberga_ ' and I perf—" She coughs. Almost said she _performed to it_. . . She had skated to this piece way back during her junior days, the memories tied to it bittersweet. But that's too long a story for today's 30-minute lesson—not to mention it's only the second time she's met the guy. "I, uh, heard it on the radio a few years back and it just . . . stuck to me, I guess."

He leans back on the wall behind him, next to the whiteboard. Humming almost inaudibly, he replies, "It would have to be a duet, not a piano solo."

And without thinking, she blurts out—"Perfect! We could play it together!"

He. Scoffed.

He actualy scoffed.

"While the melody is technically playable by a complete amateur, the emotion behind it is hard to emulate. It's an incredibly complex piece."

"Well that's not something you should say to your student who's just starting to love the instrument you're trying to teach for a living."

"Isn't the trust between teacher and student predominantly based on honesty?"

"Well, I still want to play the piece," she huffed.

"Maybe in a few years." He smirks. It wasn't the smile she saw in the commemorative photos, not as sincere. But as if lectured, he sits up straighter on his seat and schools his features into apathy yet again. "We can set that as a goal, if you want. I'll teach you the basics you need in order for you to play that piece."

"Sounds great. Where should we start, then?"

"Twinkle Twinkle."

Mai —conflicted between wanting to groan and to snort as unladylike as she can—flashes an empty, rehearsed smile instead. "Bring it on."

-:-

* * *

a/n: Thank you so much for such an overwhelming response to the first chapter! I didn't expect people to like it at all and... I'm sooooo sorry it took this long for me to update... please don't hate me D: i'm trying my hardest to keep this story going but like... i'm finding it difficult to keep my focus on it bc, as stupid as it sounds, i'm at that stage of a writer's life where i keep thinking What Is The Point (to my existence)

a/n2: how could i forgettt! thanks a bunch to Shay (teaghostie) for giving me the idea of letting mai choose a song that's dear to her heart~ without it, i woudn't have known where tf i'm going with this chapter ^3^


	3. you're losing sight, you're losing touch

_3: you're losing sight, you're losing touch_

-:-

"Again."

Mai lets out a frustrated breath through clenched teeth, both hands folded into fists on top of the piano keys. Today's her fifth lesson at Davis Piano Studio, and her teacher, Oliver Davis, has decided to drill her with the two sets of scales she has just learned the other day. She mustn't stop until they've been polished to perfection, he demands. There's no clock inside the cramp practice room, and as much as she thinks it's been hours since they started, it's probably been only thirty minutes.

Before this, it's never crossed her mind how strenuous playing an instrument is—needing to memorize which note went to what key, having to repeat a single passage again and again until it rings perfectly. But the repetition she can endure; sitting still for long periods of time—that's where she falls short. She's been an athlete for as long as she can remember and being the figure skater that she is, it meant constant movement of her entire body, not just her hands.

Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out in one huff, she shuts her eyes and thinks back to how Oliver played the passage. It seemed so easy, the way his graceful fingers ghosted over the keys. He's teaching her to play scales with both hands right off the bat, telling her how she'll learn faster that way. These are a simple scales, he says. _They aren't_. She's a complete amateur when it comes to the piano but, as she goes over the F# major scale once more—nope. Nope nope nope. This is definitely is not "simple". This is like teaching a figure skating beginner a basic spin on just one foot when they haven't learned how to spin on two.

"Stop." Her teacher sighs, standing up from his seat at the farthest corner of the room—which isn't very far though, only three steps away. "Remember that you're still pushing the same keys, just from different octaves. Look." He motions for her to scoot over and he sits beside her on the bench, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

And without even looking at the keys, he then proceeds to perform the scale with speed and accuracy, never hesitating once.

"See? Easy. Now you do it."

Damn this arrogant teacher.

Her fingers still hurt from the twenty-three times (yes, she counted) he made her repeat the C major scale, but she pushes through nonetheless. She isn't the reigning 3-peat champion of the figure skating Nationals for nothing. Practice takes you places, and the piano is no different.

"Again. Mind your fourth finger."

Her butt is killing her. Old and worn, the leather padding of the bench she's sitting on has deflated to the point that it might as well have been removed. It's just as uncomfortable as the cold, plastic benches right outside a rink where the audience stays.

Her mind drifts to the ice, where her heart currently is. She longs to go back to feel cold wind blowing across her face, to hear the sound of blades gliding through, to experience the adrenalin of a successful jump. What she would do to go back, to prepare for next season's choreography. She can already envision it—she'll make a comeback with a short program of maximum difficulty, peppered with triples everywhere, then a triple toe-half loop-triple salchow combination followed immediately by a combination spin. Her heart jumps in anticipation—her step sequence will reminisce a gypsy's carefree dance, going faster and faster until the music reaches a dramatic decrescendo . . . she slows down to her favorite Ina Bauer, and then—a quad!

Her third finger overreaches on the piano, pressing down a white key instead of black.

Oliver sighs again—he does that a lot—and pinches the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "Let's take a three-minute break."

"Yes!" With both hands outstretched above her head, Mai stands up abruptly, but the back of her knees hit the piano bench with an unexpectedly large force. Her face twists from joy to agony. She bites her lip so she doesn't whimper, tries not to curl into herself in pain as her left leg throbs. "A-ah, Teacher. Is it okay—is it okay for me to go to the kitchen for a sec? I think I—fuck, I need water."

Eyes wide and brows high, Oliver is surprised at hearing her curse for the first time. He scrutinizes her strained smile. "Sure. You know where it is."

Mai brings her bag along with her and shuffles out the door and down the hallway. She tries to hide the small limp she has, but of course she can't fool anyone. Every step shoots lightning from her knee down to her toes. Tears threaten to fall, but not because of the pain—because of frustration. How long will she be like this?

When she reaches the kitchen, she takes out her medicine bottle from one of her bag's pockets and drops her bag to the floor. There isn't a cup or glass in sight—nor are plates and utensils; Oliver probably keeps them all in the cupboards. She opens one of the cabinets below and see only plates, then opens the cupboards above and find mugs. She can't reach them.

An arm darts up from behind her, taking a mug and handing it to her. Mai looks behind her and comes face-to face with Oliver—their noses literally two centimeters apart. He looks at her with an unreadable expression, his eyes searching hers—yet without a hint of curiosity, as if he already knows what he's looking for. It's as if he knows who she is—what she's done to his brother.

Mai averted her gaze and faces forward, heart stuck in her throat, her stomach twisting in anxiety. Oliver backs away and sits on one of the two chairs at the small dining table.

"Thanks," Mai mumbles as she fills the mug with water. She takes two pills to her mouth and lifts the mug to her lips, gulping down everything with her eyes clenched shut. It'll take ten minutes for her medicine to kick in. She just has to wait.

She sighs. Her knee's still throbbing, but it isn't as painful as a while ago. With the mug still nestled in her hands, she turns around and leans back onto the counter. Oliver is looking at her with that same unreadable expression.

"What are you playing at, Mai Taniyama?" he asks suddenly. The air around Mai shifts—it grows heavier by the second, anymore and it might bring her down too.

"Wh-what? What are you talking about?" she asks back, lifting the mug once more and drinking nothing. It's already been emptied.

"I know who you are. What exactly are you doing in this rundown piano studio?" He folds his arms and faces her squarely.

"I—I just—" Rather than her knee, now her heart was throbbing, it's beat a hellish tempo.

"You're a representative for the next Winter Olympics, aren't you. What are you doing wasting time and money in my studio."

"I'm sorry, okay I didn't mean to! It all went so fast—he was right there and I didn't see and everything went black and—" Mai blinks. "What?"

"What?" he echoes, blinking in confusion as well.

"I—um. Yeah, uh." Mai's eyesight swirls faster and faster by the minute. "I'm a figure skater, yes, how did you know that?" She laughs, trying to alleviate the mood, although it just sounds like she's in pain. "I-I told you the first time we met—I just want to, haha, learn how to play the piano!"

Rolling his eyes, he lets out a huff of breath and stands. "If you're done messing around, let's get back to the practice room. I have one more arpeggio to teach you today."

Mai watches as his back grows further and further away down the hallway.

It's okay, it's fine. He still doesn't know.

-:-

* * *

 _a/n: Friendly reminder that I don't actually know how to play the piano, just the violin. which i can't even play well. I honestly don't know why I didn't just make this a violin au. (i blame kdrama)_

 _shameless plug time! please check out my new oneshot 'Yearly Mark'~~~ it's a timetravel story I made for the Davis twins' birthday :D_


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